TWO TURKISH LADIES
1
Having changed my wet clothing, had a shower bath and a brisk
towelling, I came out of the bathroom and stared through open windows
across rain-drenched lawns to Lichtenthaler Allee. The storm had
passed, skies were blue, and the day had resumed all its old serenity.
My memories of our recent investigations in the cemetery seemed
already trivial--insignificant. Rain-drenched roses gave freely of
their perfume; all earth was fragrant; and under the trees which still
dripped moisture, men in flannel kit and girls in flimsy summer frocks
were appearing again.
Gaston Max, having also changed, presently rejoined me wearing
gorgeous plus-fours. His expression was very thoughtful, and as he
entered:
“I have been thinking hard, my friend,” he said. “Do you remember the
suit I am wearing?”
“I remember it very well.”
“I was wearing it on Monday when I followed Mme. Yburg to the
cemetery. I had had no time to change before dinner, and later when I
returned, I forgot to leave it out for the valet.…” From his pocket he
produced a gold cigarette case. “In the coat is my missing case!”
“Good!” said I, ringing for a waiter. “In a less reputable hotel you
might easily have lost it.”
“Yes!” Max was staring out of the open window. “I first missed it, you
remember, last night.”
“Quite!”
I turned, glancing at him curiously.
“Does this suggest anything to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah! I may be wrong. To me it suggests a possible theory.”
He pressed a jewelled button in the ornate case and a cigarette shot
up magically, which he proffered. It was a _caporal_ but I accepted
it.
“Your cigarette case is worthy of the late Harry Houdini.”
Max stared at me fixedly for a moment and then glanced down at the
case. There came a rap on the door and the waiter entered.
“I am inclined to agree with you.”
I was puzzled. There was a hidden significance in his words which
evaded me. And having ordered cocktails, as the waiter went out:
“You seem to be hinting that there is some mystery about your loss of
the case,” I said.
“No,” Max replied, “not about my _loss_--that was pure chance. But
about the case, yes. I think so.”
“Is the mystery of a private nature?”
“Not at all. But as I dislike making a fool of myself, I should prefer
to check my theories before I confide them to you.”
He shot a second cigarette into the palm of his hand and replaced the
gold case in his pocket; then:
“Consider,” he went on, “the circumstances of our last warning. You
remember it?”
“Very clearly.”
“Apart from its apparently supernatural character, it was remarkable
for one thing.”
“What was that?”
“It will be clear if I simply remind you that at the time the last
warning reached us _you_ were expecting it.”
His words puzzled me for a moment. And then:
“I think I understand what you mean,” I said. “It came to _me_ at
precisely the same time as the others had come?”
“But exactly! Whereas _my_ second warning had not been so
accommodating. Had you considered this point?”
Frankly I admitted I had not.
“Does it seem significant to you?”
“It does.”
“I will not stress this point--I may be wrong.”
2
I had become accustomed to the presence of Mme. Yburg at the luncheon
hour, but although Max and I lingered, she did not appear. I asked the
Frenchman if he knew where she lived. He smiled wryly, and:
“Considering my profession, it seems absurd,” he confessed, “but I
have no idea.”
“She is a very clever woman.”
Max rolled a bread crumb softly upon the cloth.
“Undoubtedly. What we know of her history proves it.” He glanced
across at me. “How absurd! Never before have I been at such a loss.
Frankly, my friend, although we have only until midnight, I have no
idea how to occupy the remaining hours. No, none. In short, I have
failed in the most elementary duty of a criminal investigator.”
“What is that?”
“The elimination of unessentials.”
“Ah!” I nodded, thinking deeply. “I see what you mean.”
“I have nine theories,” Max went on. “Into four of them I could begin
to inquire this afternoon--but of these four three are certainly
wrong, and it is possible that the true solution lies amongst the
other five--which I cannot investigate this afternoon; or that no one
of the nine is the true solution.”
I laughed.
“In these circumstances, what do you propose to do?”
“I propose,” Max replied, “to retire and to meditate.”
“You mean you want to be alone this afternoon?”
He nodded.
“This does not offend you?”
“Not at all!”
“Good. To-night there is, as you must have observed, a fancy-dress
dance taking place here. Such occasions always I have observed to be
fruitful. Therefore, I think we shall be present.”
“In fancy dress?”
Max shook his head.
“As ourselves,” he answered solemnly. “Let us meet at seven o’clock in
the cocktail bar and dine together.”
“We shall still have five hours.”…
3
When I joined Gaston Max at seven o’clock, I entered a fantastic
world.
In England nowadays, except at elaborately organized affairs, the call
of fancy dress falls upon deafish ears. On the Continent it is
otherwise, or so it appeared to me at the moment I entered the bar.
As a rule few women penetrated to George’s sanctum. This night
provided that exception which proves the rule. Cleopatra was there
with Frederick the Great in attendance. Pierrette’s cigarette was
being lighted by a cardinal. A peasant of the Black Forest came in
escorting a nautch girl. There were grotesque figures; few black
coats. But whereas the men wore heavy and elaborate costumes--one was
in Moorish armour--the women seemed to have pursued a more simple
ideal. If ugly man has a tendency to hide, beautiful woman loves to
show herself in public.
Max emerged from the colour scheme, the most perfectly dressed man in
the room. He looked like a silk hat fresh from the hatter’s.
Having procured cocktails, we edged to a space near the door.
There had been no return of the storm. The night was still and hot. I
greeted a few recognizable acquaintances as presently we made our way
to a somewhat remote table in the dining room. Fritz was smiling but
apologetic.
“It is so difficult, gentlemen,” he explained. “There are many people
here, notable people, who come for this occasion and reserve their
table so far in advance.”
When, having taken our wine order, Fritz had gone:
“Look about,” said Max in a low voice, bending toward me, “and see if
you can find Mme. Yburg.”
“You think she is here?”
“I am sure she is here.”
I leaned back and looked about me. An unseen orchestra played softly.
Animated groups surrounded every table in view. Ice buckets were at a
premium and I encountered many laughing glances. For the inscrutable,
slightly oblique eyes of Mme. Yburg I searched in vain. Let me confess
that my quest was not a wholehearted one. I was looking for Mme.
Yburg, yes! Undoubtedly she formed a link with that mysterious power
which had limited our hours in Baden-Baden. But I was hoping, too, for
a sight of frank blue eyes, for a glimpse of a shapely tawny head, and
of slim, sun-browned shoulders. My search was unfruitful and I sighed.
“Four and a half hours,” said a voice.
I turned sharply. Gaston Max was smiling at me.
“Did I startle you?”
“Yes, I confess you did.”
“It is amusing.”
The sound of gay voices became a mere background, unreal, deceptive; a
painted cloth against which Max and I, willy-nilly, must play a grim
drama.
“It is certain,” he went on, “that there are many people here to-night
who belong to that invisible organization which speaks to us through
the Voice. You agree with me?”
I nodded.
“Do you see our cross-eyed waiter anywhere?”
“No.”
“It is possible he suspects, and has gone. Do you realize, my friend,
that no violence has been offered to any of us--that only a Voice has
spoken. Yet…” he shrugged… “do you doubt?”
Being conscious of a growing uneasiness almost amounting to a physical
chill:
“It’s impossible to doubt,” I replied, “that we are up against the
plans of some very high intelligence. What those plans may be…”
Max reached across the table and grasped my arm.
“Have you a match?”
I saw that he held an unlighted cigarette between his lips. Startled,
I met his fixed look. Lowering his voice:
“Speak softly,” he warned, “I think _somebody_ is listening.”
4
When later we penetrated to that crowded ballroom, utter unreality was
the keynote of my feelings. I found myself thinking of Edgar Allan
Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death”--nor should I have been surprised if
the Voice, incarnate and ghastly, a menacing figure from another
world, had joined the revellers.
Whom Max had suspected of eavesdropping he had not told me. Perhaps
the presence of a heavily disguised group at the next table may have
aroused his suspicion. Toward the end of dinner I had asked him
outright if he had learned anything which I did not know.
“Yes. My meditations this afternoon resulted in one definite
discovery, and one theory. I shall presently tell you what I know and
what I suspect. But, now, let us mix with the dancers and look out for
Mme. Yburg. If you see her do not let her know--unless of course she
is undisguised. If I leave you, do not be alarmed. But at a quarter of
twelve be in your apartment.”…
It was all abominably mystifying. We left the dining room and entered
the ballroom. And as we pushed our way through a group of people
standing immediately inside the doorway, I lost Gaston Max.
To say that he disappeared would be to suggest an illusion: the fact
remains that, whereas he entered beside me, on gaining the edge of the
floor he was there no longer.
Admittedly I became somewhat abstracted. And for this reason:
As I reached the outer edge of the throng and gazed across the room,
my glance, as though magnetically attracted, rested on the gauzily
clad figure of an Arab girl. Except for shapely brown arms and
suggested outline, nothing of her was visible but the bridge of her
nose and two bright eyes.
These eyes, though the lids were darkened, were not the eyes of an
Eastern. They were sky blue and they met my glance fixedly. No mistake
was possible.
It was the girl of the Kurhaus!
Exploring has taught me many things, not least among them the
importance of brisk decision. Rather rudely perhaps I pushed my way
around the edge of the dancing floor.
Some few altercations I had, for the way was crowded. But I never lost
sight of my objective. She seemed to be alone and I should have
thought she was looking for someone amongst the many dancers, except
that her glance rarely seemed to leave mine.
Presently I found myself beside her.
Let me say in my defence that I am no Don Juan. Having passed through
all those temptations which the fag-end of the war with Germany
offered to a fledgling officer, I had never experienced more than a
passing interest in any woman. Somehow the sentiment awakened by this
sun-kissed Diana was deeper, different, more vital. Otherwise, for my
social assurance is not great and my sense of the proprieties is
enormous, I should never have had the impudence to behave as I did
behave.
When I stepped up beside her, the girl turned and looked at me.
Through her gauzy _yashmak_ I could see that she was smiling.
“Lady of the East,” I said, and knew my speech to be rather
ridiculous--my heart was beating rapidly--“may I have the honour of
dancing with you?”
For one ghastly moment it occurred to me that she might not speak
English, but:
“Yes, if you like,” she replied.
Her English was faultless, quite without accent, yet the intonation
told me that she was not an Englishwoman.
“Thank you.”
And we joined the dancers. It was a slow procession, yet we were half
around the room before we spoke again, nor had I looked into her eyes.
Then:
“You must think me very rude, or very brave,” I said, “but I have seen
you before.”
“I know.” She met my glance frankly. “I saw you in the Kurhaus last
night.”
I laughed, but I was glad. The confession was at once naïve and
gratifying.
“And I saw _you_.”
“I know you did. And somehow I knew we should meet again.”
She danced perfectly and I did not; but it’s more of a woman’s job
anyway. Then:
“Surely you are not here alone?” I experimented.
“No. I came with a friend, but I have lost her.”
“That’s odd. Precisely the same thing has happened to me.”
“We seem to have quite a lot in common,” she murmured.
But her sophistication was that of a schoolgirl newly upon the world,
and when I laughed at her words, she joined me gaily.
Midnight, with its threat, was forgotten. My mission in the Black
Forest sank into a gloomy background. I had found myself in touch with
hideous, terrible things. Their very memory was contaminating. I was
in danger no doubt; but such is my make-up, thank God, I cast it aside
as a snake casts its skin, and for one little hour I was content.
Presently we walked out into the moonlit gardens, my companion
glancing about her fearfully.
“If I’m caught,” she declared, “there’ll be a fearful row.”
And as she preceded me down the steps I cudgelled my brains in vain
for a clue to something familiar in the way she carried herself--in
her intonation--in the poise of her proud head.
I was not alone in my admiration of the graceful Arab, but she was
satisfied to be in my company, and of this I was absurdly proud. She
was so utterly removed from the dark things which I had met with in
Baden--from the cemetery-haunting mysteries of the Black Forest.
We walked along beside the little laughing stream, and:
“It is only reasonable that you should know,” I said, “that my name is
Brian Woodville.”
My companion was silent for a moment, then:
“Thank you for telling me,” she replied, “but as it’s all make-believe
to-night, I almost wish you hadn’t told me.”
“What?”
“Well, in a sort of way, I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Cinderella?”
“Something like that! But if I can just call you Brian, you can call
me Marusa.”
“Marusa? Surely that’s Russian?”
“I suppose it is. Except that in my case I think it’s Polish.”
“But you speak perfect English.”
“I was educated in England.”
“And your home is here?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “At least temporarily.”
The band had been playing for a long time, but I was loath to return,
until:
“I’m afraid I must go back,” Marusa said. “There’ll be a perfect hue
and cry if I’m missing.”
“By whom?”
She paused perceptibly before replying.
“The friend I came with. Please let’s go back.”
We returned slowly.
“You don’t mean you’re going home yet, surely?”
“I’m afraid I may be.”
“But…”
“I don’t want to. I should love to stay.”
“Then if you’re dragged away, at least tell me when I can see you
again.”
“I can’t possibly tell you that--but now that I know your name…”
“Yes…?”
She stopped in sight of the hotel steps and glanced at me quickly,
then away again.
“Do you really want to see me?”
“You know I do.”
“Well… you’re staying here, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we can meet again some time.”
She walked on and passed up the steps, I following. At the glazed door
she halted, extending one round, brown arm to check me.
“Please hide!” she urged. “There’s someone looking for me!”
The sincerity of her words was unmistakable.
“Good-night,” I said. “Promise to see me again.”
Marusa turned and met my fixed glance for a moment. She nodded
slightly. Then she went in and I lost sight of her.
A pair of wandering dancers followed a moment later, however, and gave
me the cover which I needed. I entered the lobby behind them.
Marusa was standing in animated conversation with another Arab lady,
almost identically dressed!
5
I had seen enough to convince me that my fascinating friend was being
reprimanded by her companion and to guess that my night of pleasure
was doomed to be cut short. I had seen something else. The slender,
graceful figure of the second Arab definitely was not that of the
dragon who had accompanied Marusa at the Kurhaus.
Who was this guarded beauty and why was she so mysteriously reticent?
It was sufficient evidence of my infatuation that with the unknown
peril of midnight hanging over my head I determined to find out.
I thought I had entered unobserved, and crossing to a distant table I
took up a strategic position behind a raised newspaper. As I had
suspected, the two women went out. I rushed to a window.
The hall porter was going for a car. I stood up and moved toward the
door. A fresh-faced, be-spectacled clergyman who, regardless of
festivities in the neighbouring ballroom, had been reading the
_Berliner Tageblatt_ at a near-by table, stood up a moment later and
walked in the same direction. He carried a soft, black hat; and as I
watched a big car draw up at the steps and saw the hall porter
assisting the Arab ladies to enter it, the priest collided with me.
His mild eyes considered my irritation through owlish spectacles. I
think I had so far forgotten myself as to curse under my breath.
“Pray excuse me, sir,” came a soft clerical voice. “The error was
mine. You see, I am very shortsighted.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I am entirely to blame.”
I pushed the door open and hurried down the steps. The car was just
moving off.
“Porter!” I cried, when:
“One moment,” said the clergyman. He was at my elbow again. “I think I
know your purpose. Do I divine that you are interested in the ladies
who have just driven away?”
I turned and stared at him angrily.
“Even so, what business is it of yours?”
“None, my dear sir,” he admitted. “It is not my place to rebuke.
Indeed I rejoice in the works of the Almighty, but I may be able to
save you a fruitless journey.”
The hall porter had now joined us, and:
“Yes, sir,” he said, “do you want a taxi?”
“I don’t think we do,” the mysterious clergyman replied. “We have
changed our plans.”
“Very good, sir.”
Exhibiting a surprising power of grip, my priestly acquaintance urged
me down the steps and we moved right, in the direction of the garden.
“My friend,” he continued benevolently, as the hall porter stood
staring after us, “I am happy to have been of service to you in this
small matter.”
I watched the car driving over the bridge, and disappearing into the
shadowy distances of Lichtenthaler Allee.
“The nature of your services is not apparent,” I said angrily.
But now, passing around the end of the building:
“Listen!” growled the priest.
He spoke in another voice! He released his grip of my arm and I
turned, staring at him through shadows.
“You’ve got me now,” he went on. “And I’m going to say we have to jump
to it. I’m known as Rev. Josiah Higgins of Sydney, Australia. But I’m
not sure the change is going to help along a whole lot. It’s three
hours to midnight!”
I inhaled deeply, then:
“_Lonergan!_” I said.
“Surely. But don’t collect too big a crowd by loud applause. You’ve
got a crush on the copper-haired maiden. That’s in order--no queries.
But what I figure you don’t know is the identity of her girl friend.”
“The other woman?”
“She’s the Jane I mean… _Mme. Yburg!_”